


Rare and Sweet as Cherry Wine

by MeghanAnna



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5925720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeghanAnna/pseuds/MeghanAnna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BFF Prompt: Clarke's had a rough day/week and she just wants to go home, take a bath, and get drunk off wine but she can't find her corkscrew. Desperate, she knocks on her Bellamy's door to ask for his and their cute asses end up sharing the bottle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rare and Sweet as Cherry Wine

**Author's Note:**

> This was really fun to write. And I'm always happy when I can use Hozier lyrics as a title for a fic!

Bellamy’s seen the new girl— _woman_ —in his building a few times. They’ve never spoken, though, just exchanged polite smiles or nearly imperceptible head nods. She moved in next door a week ago and, so far, she’s been the picture of a perfect neighbor.

Sometimes, he can hear her music, but it doesn’t suck and she always makes sure to turn it off before 10. She doesn’t make food that smells so strongly that it seeps down the hallway and into his apartment. And you know, she’s beautiful but doesn’t throw it in his face by checking her mail in tiny bathrobes. All in all, he likes her, and he doesn’t even know her name.

But tonight’s a little different. She sees Bellamy in the lobby while they’re both checking their mail. There’s no way she _couldn’t_ see him, her mailbox is right next to his. But when he smiles at her, she turns away and walks towards the stairwell. He takes the back stairwell because he doesn’t want to be the creep that smiles at her and then _follows_ her. They enter their hallway at the same time from opposite ends-- which he should have thought it through a little better, because now they’re going to have to meet in the middle while they both unlock their doors.

She finally looks at him when she tucks her mail under her arm. She doesn’t smile, just nods, and he does the same before pushing his door open effortlessly. He’s noticed in the week she’s been living next to him that she has trouble with her door. And this time—because maybe, on some level, he _is_ a creep—he listens and it takes her a full thirty seconds longer to get into her apartment, even though she got there before he did.

He knows he can’t do anything to help her, not really. Miller’s a locksmith and he _might_ be able to do something, but Bellamy doesn’t even know her full name, just the first initial and last name— _C. Griffin_ —from her mailbox. He cannot very well just knock on her door and ask if she needs help with her lock. That would make him seem like he’s trying to get into her apartment and possibly skin her for a new coat, which he would never do--he’s _always_ preferred wool to human flesh.

So, instead, Bellamy takes out his contact lenses, takes a shower, and puts on some sweats and a t-shirt. He settles onto his couch for a long weekend with just his Netflix queue. He’s just starting to scroll through his options when there’s a knock on his door. Sighing, Bellamy abandons his remote control and gets up to answer it.

“Oh,” says his neighbor. He’s not sure why _she_ sounds so confused, seeing as she’s the one who knocked on his door. She’s no longer dressed for work in her dark jeans, tall boots, and khaki trench coat, but instead a pair of leggings and a slightly oversized tank top with a _really_ oversized flannel shirt over it. Somehow, he likes this look even more than all the others he’s seen her in.

“Hi,” he greets her, slowly, because he actually _does_ have a reason to be confused.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “Your glasses threw me off. I didn’t know you wore them.”

“Only at night.” He is still speaking slowly because, honestly, he’s still really confused and he isn’t really sure how to ask if she needs something without sounding like a dick. But she just stands there, with the most ridiculous socks on, staring at his glasses, and he doesn’t know what she wants. “Did you need something?”

“I’ve had a really long week,” she says apologetically, looking down at the floor. “Do you, possibly, have a corkscrew I could borrow? I know I have one somewhere but there are just _so many_ boxes and I can’t face them right now. They’ve been staring at me all week, taunting me to unpack them, but--“

“Your boxes are taunting you?” he asks, smirking, and her eyes snap to his. She nods sadly and he smiles. “I’m not a wine drinker. No corkscrew. Sorry.”

At that, she sighs, and, honestly, Bellamy feels a little bad. If Octavia still lived with him, he would definitely be able to offer her a corkscrew, but as it is, he’s got nothing.

“That’s okay,” she assures him, but he can’t help but notice that it doesn’t _sound_ okay. “Sorry for interrupting your night.”

Before he has a chance to tell her she didn’t and has nothing to be sorry for, she’s gone, her door closing in his face.

Now, Bellamy has never been a wine drinker, but he did go to college and is nothing if not resourceful. He knows how to open a bottle of wine with a knife—but, it’s usually messy—and, alternatively, a screw and some pliers.

He rifles through his coat closet until he finds his toolbox and holds it above his head in victory. He even cheers a little. He likes being the hero, especially when there’s a beautiful woman involved. Sue him.

When she answers her door, she’s holding the bottle of wine in her hand, still corked, like she was trying to come up with something. This time, she does have a reason to be confused, so he smiles at her and holds up the supplies in his hands. It does nothing to clear up her confusion.

“Hi?” It’s a question—about what he’s doing at her door and, more importantly, why he’s showing her two unrelated tools like he just found the cure for cancer.

“I think I can get that thing open,” he explains but her brows just furrow deeper. “Do you mind?” he asks, nodding at the bottle in her hands.

She shrugs, moving aside, and he walks through her maze of boxes in the living room to the counter dividing the space from her kitchen. When she reaches him, she gives him the bottle, and leans on the counter to watch whatever he has planned.

He starts turning the screw into the cork by hand, watching his new neighbor more closely than his actions, and she seems thoroughly impressed by what little he’s done.

“I’m Bellamy, by the way,” he mentions and she smiles up at him, a little tired but not unfriendly. “Probably should have mentioned that before I invited myself into your home.”

“Clarke,” she says, holding out her hand—all business. It makes him smile as they shake hands. “What, exactly, are you doing?”

He lets go of the screw, and her hand, and picks up his pliers, holding onto the bottom of the bottle. “I’m going to use this to pull the cork out,” he explains before pulling.

The cork moves slowly and Clarke’s standing on her toes to see every piece of the action. She already seems happier than earlier when they saw each other in the hallway. Her eyes are practically glowing. She must really need that drink.

It takes what seems like forever before the cork finally pulls out of the bottle and it actually throws him off. It was a slow process until, suddenly, it was out and he was falling back a couple of steps. He’d be a little embarrassed, but his new neighbor is too busy praising him for him to worry.

“Oh my god,” she’s saying, taking the bottle from his hand. “You’re my favorite fucking person in the world right now.”

And then, with no warning, her arms are around his neck and he doesn’t know how to react. Hell, he just found out her name. All he did was get a cork out of a bottle. He’s not worthy of her body being pressed against his, but he’s also not complaining.

“Thank you,” she says and she sounds so _relieved_ that he doesn’t even mind that she’s not hugging him anymore.

“No problem,” he nods, putting his pliers into his pocket. He takes the screw from the cork and puts that away, too. “Enjoy.”

As he’s walking out, trying not to look back at her, Clarke calls his name.

“Bellamy,” she says and he turns to look at her. “I know you don’t drink wine, but do you maybe want to stay for _one_ drink?”

He doesn’t even have to stop to consider it. He just nods and Clarke motions for him to sit—on the floor where there’s a blanket and pillows set up against the wall because she doesn’t seem to have a couch. He gets comfortable and smiles as she pulls down two wine glasses. Clearly, she’s had time to unpack those. Or, maybe, she bought some new for her home. Whatever the reason, he’s actually looking forward to the bitter dryness of wine that he normally can’t stand.

She comes and sits next to him, handing him a glass, and sighs as she takes a long sip. “I’ve had the worst week ever,” she tells him and he nods, taking his own, much smaller sip. He waits for her to continue, maybe explain _why_ it’s been the worst week ever, but she doesn’t. She just takes another sip.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks and she nods, but then quickly shakes her head. “I mean, I know we don’t know each other, but sometimes that actually makes it easier.”

She considers him, searches his face for some kind of sign or something, and he sees the beginning of a smile at the corners of her lips.

“So,” she says finally, sighing again, “I’m an art teacher at the middle school and they just cut a bunch of our funding. Really, like, _all_ of our funding. They fired the drama teacher. So, now, I have to put on the school play on the smallest budget imaginable. And, also, I know _nothing_ about drama. So, I’m being overworked and underpaid and, I don’t know if you know this, but middle school aged kids are the worst. They’re _mean_.”

“Overworked, underpaid, and underappreciated?” He asks and she nods sadly. “I considered being a teacher for a while, when I was deciding on whether to get a Masters or just suck it up and be a writer. Then I remembered how shitty they’re treated and I know I don’t deserve much, but I deserve to at least do something I love, you know?”

“I do know,” she says, nodding enthusiastically. She’s on her knees, holding her wine glass in both hands, staring at him with this crazed look. He finds it extremely adorable. “And I _love_ what I do. Honestly, I do. This week just sucked. I’ll get the hang of it. Drama kids are just _very_ passionate.”

“I do remember that from all my years in school,” he laughs and she joins him, falling back against the pillows. “So, no couch?” he asks and her head falls to the side to study him.

“It’s getting delivered tomorrow,” she promises and he nods. The wine they’re sharing isn’t so bad and the company doesn’t suck, so he doesn’t even care that he’s sitting on the floor surrounded by boxes. “I was supposed to unpack this week, you know, after school, but…”

“But they called you up to the big leagues,” he says and she laughs, nodding.

“So, you’re a writer?” She asks him, pulling her knees to her chest so she can rest a cheek against them.

“I am. Historical fiction and magazine pieces to make sure I don’t go broke between books,” he explains and she smiles a little.

“And you love it?”

“I don’t hate it,” he tells her and she cocks an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “I mean, I guess, yeah. I do. I love it.”

They fall into a bit of silence and while Clarke finishes her glass of wine, Bellamy can’t help but watch her. She’s beautiful, yes, but it’s not just that. Even before she told him she loved her job, he could tell she did. Otherwise, she probably wouldn’t be so upset. She’s passionate about many things, like wine and art and fuzzy socks, it seems. She’s honest and upfront and neighborly. He likes her. She’s the kind of person he’d hang out with and his friends would end up liking her more than they liked him.

“So, Bellamy Blake, can I get you another glass?” She asks and his brows furrow in confusion. When he doesn’t answer, she looks at him, and her face falls. He sees a slight tinge of pink in her cheeks. “I’m not crazy. Or a stalker. I promise,” she says quickly, standing up. “Your mailbox has your last name on it. And it’s right next to mine. I’m not crazy.”

“Okay,” he laughs and she comes back with the bottle in hand, “In that case, Clarke _Griffin_ , I’m not done with my first glass, but I’ll let you know when I am.”

He’s not sure how long he stays on her floor, leaning against a pile of pillows, just talking to her. But once he’s finished his first glass of wine, she’s well into her third. After a long week of work and moving, he can’t blame her, so he pours his own and turns on his side to listen to her while she talks about all the shit she needs to unpack.

She’s already laying on her side, her hand flailing around them, pointing at every box. He doesn’t know why he cares so much about what she owns and where she plans on putting it all, but he’s captivated. And she’s excited. It’s endearing.

When he notices their second bottle of wine is empty, he thinks that he should probably go back to his own apartment. He starts to get up, but she pulls him back down, and they both fall into a fit of laughter. The wine has definitely gotten to them, but he thinks her laugh is one of the best sounds he’s heard all year.

“I’m glad you don’t wear these all the time,” she says, pulling his glasses off his face gently. She puts them on, but he knows she can’t see anything. He’s _blind_. “Whoa, maybe you should.”

She hands them back and he puts them on, laughing. “Why are you glad I don’t wear them all the time?” He asks and she shrugs, looking into her empty glass. “Clarke?”

“You’re very handsome without them,” she admits and he can feel his cheeks heat up. It could be from the wine, but he knows it’s not. “But you’ve got, like, that hot librarian thing going with them on and I know you’re a writer, so you must like books. And now I can’t help but picture it.”

“Picture what?” He can’t remember, exactly, how deep his voice normally is, but he thinks it’s gotten deeper from all the wine. When Clarke finally looks up at him, she shakes her head slowly, smiling dangerously, and grabs his face.

“I can’t tell you that,” she says quietly. Has her voice has gotten deeper, too? Does wine do that to people? “If I did, I’d have to kiss you.”

Wine doesn’t do that. Sexual tension does that.

“Is that so?” He swallows and her thumb brushes across his chin.

“I like this dimple,” she tells him, ignoring his question and brushing her thumb over the dimple in his chin again. His breathing stutters as her eyes remain on the bottom half of his face, moving slowly up from his chin to his lips. Her thumb follows and he’s sure his heart is going to race out of his chest. When she licks her own lips, he pulls back and stands up hastily, knocking down an empty wine bottle. Clarke’s hand is still in the air, like she’s still holding onto him, and he almost wants to rewind time and get back on the floor.

“I should go,” he says, running his hand through his hair. She stands up slowly, crossing her arms over her chest, and nods. “Um, I guess I’ll see you around.”

Bellamy nearly runs out of her apartment and into his own. His TV is still on and the clock on the wall tells him it’s well past midnight. He finds his phone and texts Miller about Clarke’s door because it will, at least, give him an excuse to talk to her again without it being _too_ awkward. He gets into bed and he thinks, maybe, his heart is still racing. It has to be the wine’s fault.

\--

The next morning, Bellamy is getting dressed when there’s a heavy handed knock on his door. He quickly pulls on a shirt and races through his living room just as the knock sounds again, even louder.

“Yes?” he says, looking at the giant of a man in front of him.

“Clarke Griffin?” he asks, not looking up from his clipboard. Bellamy looks around him and sees a few other guys in the hall with furniture.

“That’s me.”

He turns to find Clarke holding her door open and she smiles at him before the men start moving wordlessly into her apartment. She lets the door shut behind them, but still looks at Bellamy. He walks out into the hall with her—neutral ground seems safer.

“You left pretty quick last night,” she says, looking down at her feet. “Sorry I was such a spaz. Long week, lots of wine. I was drunk.”

“I know.” He nods and she looks up at him through her eyelashes. “That’s why I left. I wanted to get a dinner out of you, maybe, before, um…” He sighs. He’s never been good at this. He’s much better at getting women to sleep with him than actually want to date him.

“Dinner?”

He can hear something in her voice akin to excitement. It gives him the confidence to actually just ask her out.

"Yeah.” He smiles. “Dinner. Are you interested? Tonight maybe?”

“Tonight is perfect,” she says, smiling shyly.

He nods and she moves to get into her apartment to find she’s locked out. She knows there are people in there building her furniture, but she still lets her head fall against the door.

“Oh, about that,” he says, tugging gently on her elbow. “My friend Miller is a locksmith and he’s going to come look at your lock for you. I’ve noticed you’ve been having some trouble with it, so…”

He trails off, sure he sounds like some kind of lunatic, but her smile says otherwise. “First a makeshift wine opener, now a way to get me to stop hating my door? You really are a hero, Bellamy Blake.”

“I’m really not,” he promises and she laughs. Just then, her door opens and the furniture guy, holds out his clipboard for Clarke.

“Sign here,” he says and Clarke takes it from him, doing as she’s told. The man goes back inside and she catches her door with her toe.

“Pleasant,” Bellamy remarks and she rolls her eyes. “I’ll come by at 7?”

“I’ll see you then,” she nods and he smiles before going back to his apartment. He waits to listen for her door to close before calling Miller to make sure he got his text and is willing to help.

He knows he’s really not a hero, but he does want to help her out. And maybe give her a reason to try and kiss him again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://bellamyfrecklefaceblake.tumblr.com)!


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